By Judith Fitzgerald Apr 28, 2008, 10:56 GMT
The publication of The Selected Gwendolyn MacEwen, compiled and collated by poet Meaghan Strimas, represents a signal event in North America's cultural efflorescence. Not only does it provide readers hungering for a resplendent feast with both sumptuous samplings as well as generous helpings of entries across the swath of genres with which the haunted wordsmith wrestled throughout her too-brief life, it also cements her reputation as the greatest poet of her generation. As such, this gorgeously produced objet d'art towers above the field while barely containing its contents under pressure.
It's a stellar omnibus, one bound to become the first and last word on a writer of extraordinary range and abilities. Some said the woman born in Toronto 1 September 1941 wrote from the point of vision of a madwoman; others dismissed her work as the maudlin posturings from a self-obsessed POV; few refuted its effect on those who adored the miraculous turns of phrase and shapes of thought glittering on every page. A chronological repository of the various genres upon which MacEwen left her eternal mark, the volume preserves the overarching sense of purpose, the acceptance of her blessing's curses, and the journey she undertook to meet its all-consuming demands (that would find her in Greece, Egypt and, at the end of her time among us, both broken and broke in an elegantly decaying flat on Toronto's Robert Street), all in the name of that inexorable move towards the still point at the centre of chaos where lines between the light of love and the darkling grip of death (or heaven and hell or reality versus illusion) dissolve yet, paradoxically, defy resolution:"We proceed in beautiful devastating stagesTowards our end, as the horse and riderCollapse together in the catastrophe of love.I lie in the night of your breath,There is only your breath, all else has gone.The horse dissolves between the rider's thighs,The world dissolves before the rider's eyes.So now, in the animal darkness, come."— "Marinos Marini's Horses & Riders" (Afterworlds)
Unimaginably wounded by grief (dolor), passion (furor), and hardship (labor), heart-broken beyond belief, inexplicably abandoned by those who called her friend, MacEwen still somehow managed to stay the writerly course, effortlessly rising to communicate, never stooping to conquer, always mindful of her place in the holy acts of destruction and creation, the dualities she never ceased attempting to reconcile (even after she came to understand reconciliation equals annihilation): In one of her final Afterworlds poems, she lays that apprehensive affirmation on the line, resigning herself to the truth "[t]he lord of Life is breathing in and out, / creating and destroying the Universe / With each wave of his breath." A few lines later, she does an about-face, positively celebrates the catch-breath beauty while her "lord Siva dances in the streets" before squaring the circle in "all its myriad inner worlds" whirling around "in the carousel of space . . .."
Unrequited love, ineffable longing for the impossible, the need to be needed, the magic of transformation, the catastrophes of desire — all fuel MacEwen's work which both sears the pages upon which it is written and, miraculously, reshapes them after the fashion of the phoenix, forever reinventing ascension, never forgetting the long charred night of the ashen soul. Collectively, the Selected pulls together the various strands informing the unforgettable poet's oeuvre in such a way the resulting tapestry speaks eloquently of her passions, preoccupations, demons, desires and yes, swaggadociotic proclamations. "What if the whole show was a lie, and it bloody well was— / Would I still lie to you? Of course I would."
If nothing else, MacEwen never shied away from tackling the tough issues, those circumscribing notions involving a reason to live, a way of viably negotiating the sharp turns and hidden intersections on the road to resurrection, a logic embracing the death of life or vice versa, always affirming the transformative value of both the sacral and secular, relishing existence instant-by-instant and staving off both cynicism and self-congratulatory inclinations in favour of confronting that which is (as opposed to that which — never mind those whom — manufactured a deadly mythos of a cosmos the poet could not abide):If I see the connection I will die with laughterI will tumble off the universeAt the very least I might make verseWith the fulsome laughter of the momentYes, at last!
MacEwen's poetry, poetics, politics, stories, novels, plays, translations, and as-yet-to-be-surpassed stature all receive fair play in this exquisite collection (from 1961's Selah through 1982's The Fire Eaters to her final astonishing offering, Afterworlds, a work published to superb critical reception that could not hold her here: Come 29 November 1987, news of her incomprehensible demise nearly overshadowed its incomparable triumph, fully formed achievement, philosophically coherent and politically astute brilliance). Sadly, happily, too redolent with dolor, furor, and labor for mere words in a masterpiece signed in blood, MacEwen's enduring end-times gift earned both the accolades and income she frantically attempted to secure until her hard-scrabbling desperation both grounded as well as grinding her down before they came her way (when she'd already accomplished what she had to do).
A close friend of Gwendolyn MacEwen during the last decade of her life, poet Judith Fitzgerald believes that Gwen's spirit lives among us still.
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